


periphrasis

by WhimsicalSparky



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, i need somebody to measure how much gay levia is in this, it tries too hard to be deep but it actually sucks, it's 2019 and i still don't know How to Tag™, otherwise known as Sparky Practices Levia POV, the Worst Levia is Sparky's Levia, this is highly flowery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalSparky/pseuds/WhimsicalSparky
Summary: Nobody taught you that love could be so complicated yet fascinating.— levia/gumillia.





	periphrasis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkwellAnomaly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwellAnomaly/gifts), [OddlesOfNoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddlesOfNoodles/gifts).



> this is dedicated to my friend liv and greek bc he's a cool yogurt guy (笑)
> 
> what is this? absolutely nothing. i meant to write this later, but inspiration came to me earlier than expected. i complemented it with purple prose and lack of a logical plot, so please don't look hard into it. i don't know. and as always, i can't write levia :)

 

Nobody taught you that love could be so complicated yet fascinating.

.

Unlikely, you tell yourself, that you would fall to this spell known as love. Disdain at starry-eyed lovers. Contempt at their recklessness. You can't see yourself in a similar situation. Logically, it's almost impossible.

Almost, because you don't want to jinx yourself.

.

No magic ties you two. Convenience does, with a hint of luck. You sigh. Logically, you think this is a misunderstanding. You try not to think hard into it. The implications. Possibilities. It's hard to tell what she means when 90% of her speech is monotone.

Sweat rolls on your forehead. You think of how unprofessional you are acting.

.

Her fingers skitter across your sleeves to your wrists, tips whispering unheard songs. She stares, and you fear what she might see in your eyes. She is always doing this. It's what makes your thoughts wander to your youth, when a heart hardened by loneliness had forgotten the flutter of love. You were never a child. You are an adult - mentally, at least - and you don't know anything about this.

She is beautiful, in her awkwardness, unamused eyes behind shining glasses and rare, brilliant smiles, and you betray your promise without realizing as the scent of ripe apples from her green hair lures you closer, closer.

Of course you stay quiet about it. You want to be sure that this is the fabled love media spreads like a plague, or a mere confusion between friendship and lust - or if it's something more, something you don't know, and this possibility pushes you to learn all you can about it, because that's how you are, you are always wanting more, desiring to know more and consume every tiny detail to your ever-growing curiosity.

.

When she holds your hand to guide you through the sweaty ocean of people in the mall, your lungs close shut for a second, denying air, and your heart jumps to your throat like you've been threatened. Cheeks flaming red, nerves singing, you take note of each reaction to write down later.

She turns to you - your heart pulses to your tongue, excitedly; you will spit it out if she keeps staring at you like that - and slaps a hand on your forehead. "Are you feeling ill, Miss Barisol? Your temperature is quite high," she informs with a methodical approach, face blank of emotions.

"I'll be fine. Let's buy Michaela's present."

She takes it with a nod. You have to swallow your heart down, back to your chest, when you reach the clothing store.

.

It is a side research you are executing alone. You reevaluate your feelings. You tear at yourself, picking out the physical reactions and psychological impacts to fill the papers. You check the exact shade of red on your flushed cheeks. You see how your hairs bristle at the thought of her emotionless face. You idly crack your toes.

The more you learn, the more you despair over it because it's not simple, it's not measurable. You put your emotions in scientific terms. It feels wrong. It's bland, tasteless, as if lacking its necessary descriptions to become real.

You start over. Use different terms. It still feels wrong.

You don't know how to write purple prose. You are not a writer. You don't have the talent, nor the fertile imagination to elaborate prettily-weaved metaphors. You are a logical person.

You give a shot anyways.

.

"Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at that girl," Rahab growls one morning, barely contained anger evident in half-lidded eyes.

It's two-sided. Like half of things your mother says. One: 'the way you look at that girl'? As in, at a girl instead of a boy? You don't mind. You held interest towards both, curiosity at the differences between each one. It's not under Rahab's authority as mother to decide whether you like boys, girls or both - you just do.

And two: 'at that girl'? As in, at a girl as uninteresting and dull as Gumillia? Again, you don't mind. You find the small characteristics of her to be fascinating, like absorbing the details of an intriguing novel and deciphering the meaning of its many metaphors.

"So what? I never asked for your approval." You really didn't, so why hold back? You really don't care. You won't allow even your mother to hinder your research.

.

You leave a section for the effects on Malice, of course.

Your unquenchable desire for knowledge had managed to silence your murderous urges since childhood. Lately, it has been demanding more -  _more_ ,  **more** ,  _ **more**_  - to be satisfied. You feed the gaping maw every day with whatever that can entertain your mind. You fear the day might come when it won't accept substitutes any longer.

Instead of neuropsychology textbooks and non-fiction, the furious voice, now, demands you to research more about Gumillia. You can easily picture it as a petulant child throwing a fit for not receiving a new, shiny toy.

You look at your papers - you want to rip them apart. It makes you feel like a stalker, writing down every detail of a person to reflect upon them later, and you hate that this is the only thing in a while to subside Malice.

_Isn't she the most interesting thing you've found in years? Nobody can blame you for doing this._

You refuse arguing with it.

.

_Carve open her skull. Slice open her torso. If she has swallowed a star and it is what draws you in, you'll know. Seek that special little thing which differs her from the rest._

You splash water on your face. You can't breathe - love has deeply rooted itself into you, grown a whole garden in your ribcage and you have no space for air. It's tight, suffocating. You think that colorful blossoms will sprout from your chest sooner or later, insistently seeking the only sun, jade green and dull, that can nurture them.

You hear knocking. "Miss Levia, are you feeling alright?" It's Michaela, gentle and cheeky Michaela, calling outside. Her (his - but you won't comment on his personal issues) voice is a hundred miles away. Inaudible to your conflicted mind.

You take time to gather the will to stare at your reflection - but you only see the image of a lovestruck idiot, and you want to punch yourself back to the days when you were only bothered by your research on Malice.

.

It is worse: she doesn't realize the effect she has on you. Of course she doesn't. Of course.

Isn't this how love works?

(You loathe it.)

.

It's not spectacular when you come with the following conclusion: you love Gumillia, you love her with all your heart and soul, and it hurts that she has no idea of how you ache when you wake up in cold mornings and she is never there to complain nonchalantly about it. She has besotted you with little effort.

You don't feel any different. Malice's voice still is pressing on your mind. The world hasn't changed from its degrading state. The ache in your chest is slightly more annoying, but that's it.

You are Levia Barisol and she is Gumillia Matsumoto, and everything stays the same despite the cataclysm within you.

.

You disdainfully think of famed three words ("I love you"). You grin; you refuse to utter such hollow, overrated words. They don't convey your feelings. They can mean more than you intent to say: platonic love, sisterly love, friendship, admiration, etcetera and etcetera. They can be misunderstood.

Love is not simple. It can't be described in three words - your love for her surely can't. But you aren't skilled on the art of flowery language. You can't write her a confession letter. You can't write her a poem. You can't write her anything.

But you also can't say, "I love you," and expect her to understand the strength of it.

So, you give a shot, crumpling failures and tossing them in the trash, until your heart and mind come to an agreement.

.

A truth: you know this won't last. Not because it will end in a break up, but because it is most likely bound to tragedy. That's how love works when one loves too strongly, and you blame yourself. You brought this upon yourself by allowing yourself to indulge and drown, choking on flowers and leaves and thorns.

_Choose: unrequited love or her death._

One: she gets to stay alive and you can watch her forever, have blossoms of love sprout from you and replace all of your organs, and gain nothing beyond her friendship. You will live suffocating on a terrible feeling as it eats you out, starving for the unreachable green happiness. Maybe it will be awkward because she rejected you, maybe she will stay ignorant for her own sake.

Two: she plucks blossoms from your ribcage to place them in vases, decorating her entire room with remnants of you, and everyday a new flower will bloom from you, a silent plead for her to tend to it. And eventually the thorns will wrap on her body, muscle festering by necrosis, bones splintered, poisoning her with your love that is too much and destructive. She will die and you will live in grief.

Both options have good and bad sides. You don't know which is more worthy. You are frustrated at a cliche-filled dilemma.

.

Another truth: you know you won't choose any of them. You will try and create a third option. It's in your nature to explore all possibilities. There can't be just two options. Life isn't made of two options - left and right, good and evil, white and black, light and dark - so you don't accept it.

_Whatever you choose will benefit me._

You wish that Malice would just shut up.

.

"Why do you love her, if I may ask?" Behemo asks you, hungry with curiosity like you. (It's before your relationship with him goes sour, before your past decisions starts weighing on you. He is still your friend, timid among scientists and often depending on you to interact, eccentric but polite.)

Your thoughts wander. It's a simple question, with a complex answer. You are sick of putting it in words. The papers were long thrown in the trash - all meaningless to what stirs inside your heart.

So you say, "I just do," and leaves it at that.

.

(Here's a secret: you don't want her to see what you've become after this all at once. She would be conflicted at where she should begin in the labyrinth to your heart, if not terrified of the monsters she might find there. She will be forever lost. She won't reach the center, where you wait expectantly, trimming flowers like weeds because they don't stop growing - that's what you've become, and it's pitiful to look at.

You show her small things before, patiently. You make her understand, slowly. You hold out the flowers of your love like they should matter to her, even though they don't, and bemoan at how needy you've become. Indeed, you have jinxed yourself.

But you don't mind because it's not over an empty-headed fool.)

.

The news of Gumillia's death don't shoot your heart down - you expected it, of course you did, you predicted all of this before it even happened, and it hurts tremendously. You don't see her corpse. Don't want to. You run to your room with Held calling your name, but you don't listen. The world went silent. You choke on flowers, rotting away till you are sobbing out dried petals that turn into dust in seconds.

You may not killed her directly, but you know this is partly your fault for loving too much. You know the mechanics of love, how it helps and destroys lives, immeasurable joy and broken promises, the disease it carries in every lover. Still, you loved her. You loved her too strongly. Of course she died. Obviously. It's your fault.

(If you stayed with her, if you didn't go to the kitchen to bring a snack for both of them, if you just… hadn't loved her too much… maybe-)

"Levia, I know you're there."

You let Behemo in. You barely process his hand on your shoulder as he sits next to you. Why is he here? Doesn't he hate you? Pity from a person bearing grudges is unwelcome to your current fragile state. You don't see, but a concerned frown replaces the typical teasing smile.

He doesn't take well your sharp comment of, "You know I don't care to whatever a crossdressing weirdo has to say."

"See? This is why I keep distance from you." Concern distorting into mild irritation, Behemo maintains a grip on your shoulder that is too tight to be comforting while holding out a hand at the door. "You're not the only one suffering. All of us - Michaela, Held, Marie, me - grieve for Gumillia's death, so quit acting like you're alone in this."

"Great way to cheer me up."

"I suck at cheering up people. However, because I care, I decided to try despite knowing that you would react badly."

You appreciate his sincerity. At least.

.

Let them know. You have stopped caring. The three-beat lullaby resonates hollow between your bones, harmonized with your sophistry. Seeds are planted in your stomach, the remnants of your love, never to bloom again until the day you happen upon Gumillia's reincarnation. You don't hide your tears anymore. Let them see. Let them mock you like Rahab did. Let them hate you.

Eyes closed, you permit your soul to drown again.

.

Nobody taught you that love could be so complicated yet fascinating.

You discovered it by yourself. You were torn apart by it, stitched back together, and played with by its hands. It carved Gumillia's shape on your heart so you wouldn't forget the yearning.

It's not simple, therefore you assume there are many other layers you haven't felt yet. You have yet to document them to mind.

You sink, your garden bursting into flames.

**Author's Note:**

> highly confusing, i know, i kinda lost motivation halfway through. but y'know, that's normal. i wanted pretty writing + levia pov + levia/gumillia. i… don't think this is as smooth as it could be, so here's my sincerest apologies.
> 
> anyways, here's stuff. leave a comment, if u feel generous. validation and constructive criticism are welcome! have a good day :)


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